


two in the chest (none in the head)

by cweepa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, First Meetings, M/M, Mickey's POV, One Shot, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cweepa/pseuds/cweepa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The first time I see you, it's the summer of 09' and you're dressed all in white.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	two in the chest (none in the head)

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to [sharperobjects](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sharperobjects/pseuds/sharperobjects) for helping me read through this, even though i'm pretty sure my refusal to stick with one tense is a non salvageable situation.

 

The first time I see you, it's the summer of 09' and you're dressed all in white. White slacks, white jacket, white loafers. I remember thinking how dumb you looked, because in the dusty streets of New York, who even dresses this way?  
  


The only splash of color on you was your hair, which was distinctively red. Even your skin was almost porcelain.  
  


And then I see you crouch beside a sobbing young boy with chocolate stained fingers, who looked lost. You were standing in front of an art museum, and I was across the road from you. It was my lunch hour, and it must have been everyone else's too, judging from the crowd.  
  


And yet, you were the only one who stopped to help the boy.  
  


He doesn't want to talk to you, was probably told by his mother to stay away from strangers, and yet, you didn't let that deter you. He eventually tells you what is wrong, and from across the road, I could hear him crying.  
  


You hug him, and when he lets go of you, there are smudgy chocolate handprints on your jacket and your ridiculously white cuffs. You stand up, and the knees of your pants are grey with dust. And yet, all that seemed to matter to you was the boy. You stay there with him, even buy him an ice cream from a nearby vendor.  
  


Soon enough, a pretty brunette comes rushing out the museum and down the stairs. She embraces the boy tightly, and thanks you profusely. You seem to brush it off, and I imagine your cheeks were as red as your hair.  
  


The two of them leave, and you glance across the street, straightening up. You meet my gaze, and smile warmly, even though your outfit is covered in dried tears and chocolate.  
  


I look away quickly. You were the first person who had smiled at me in over a week.

 

*

 

The next time I see you, it's three months later. You come into the garage with a younger girl on your arm, her hair a shade of red that is almost as startling as yours.I think I was doing repairs on someone's Audi. I hear you arguing with Nate, and wheel myself out from under the car.  
  


"She really needs her car fixed, she has to drive back up for her new semester next week and I don't have a car," you say almost pleadingly, but Nate is relentless.  
  


"We're all tied up here," he says. "It's busy as hell. I'm sorry, you will have to find another garage."  
  


It's not common for Nate to turn away customers, it's a small, family-run business, after all, and there isn't much staff available.  
  


"The next garage is an hour away," you say despairingly, and Nate shrugs uncaringly.  
  


"I'm sorry," he repeats, and the girl looks stricken.  
  


"It's fine," she says. "I'll hitch a ride or take the bus."  
  


And I remember that expression on your face, the absolute look of helplessness. I had a similar one when Mandy ran off with her abusive boyfriend.  
  


"Hey boss," I remember saying. "I'll do it for them."  
  


"I'm not paying you for overtime," Nate says warningly, but I shrug anyway.  
  


"It's fine," I reply, and your face lights up.  
  


"I-thank you," you say. "This means a lot to me." I wave you off, and tell Nate to complete all the admin before sending the car for pick-up.  
  


Your girlfriend's? Sister's? car is a small, dusky gold Honda, and the repairs are simple enough. I end up staying later to complete her repairs, and you arrange pick up two days later, on Wednesday. I take down the timing, and you are due to come in during my break. I remember resolving to stay in for lunch, maybe ask for your name, your number, a date.  
  


Wednesday rolls around and I wake up sick, too sick to even leave the house. It's just the flu, but I never got to see you that day.

 

*

 

The third time I see you, it had to be more than just coincidence. New York is huge, and what are the odds that I would bump into the same person not one, but three times? It had gotten to the point where I had accepted the fact that I had probably lost my only chance.  
  


And yet, there you are, red hair, green eyes and pale skin. You never spoke to me or even looked up, but I still remember it down to the last second. I was at the hospital with my sister, who had been put in there by her boyfriend. We were in the canteen, near a vending machine that served rubbish coffee. It had been a hellish day, and there was still hours of sitting with Mandy while the police took her statement.   
  


Needless to say, I was exhausted, and yet, when I saw you, it seemed as though a dam had opened in my chest and drained all the fatigue away. You were sitting at a table, phone cradled in both hands, staring into space. I don't think you noticed me.  
  


Your phone rings, and you pick it up shakily.  
  


"Hello," you say, and the person on the other end of the line must have had bad news, because your face crumbles, and I catch the hint of tears at the edge of your eyes.  
  


"She lost the baby," you choke out. "She miscarried."  
  


You break down crying then, and suddenly, I felt horrible for wondering if it was alright for me to ask you for your number, because you had a child, for fuck's sake, a child who was dead, and a wife or girlfriend who was probably in mourning. There and then, I felt like an asshole.  
  


I imagine the person on the other end of the line is trying to soothe you. Before I can do anything, not that I could do much, my own phone rings, telling me to return to Mandy and that she is ready to give her statement.  
  


And for the third time, I left without knowing your name.

 

*

 

The fourth and last time I see you, it's on the bus. It's late and there's only a few other commuters left. You get on wearily, and collapse into the seat beside me. I can hardly believe my luck.  
  


"I know you," you say softly, and I nod. "You helped me fix Debbie's car."  
  


"Your girlfriend?" I ask, and you shake your head. "My sister."  
  


You are wringing your hands tightly and staring at the floor. You look on the verge of tears.  
  


"Bad day?" I ask quietly, and you blink.  
  


"Yeah," you whisper, and that's when the dam breaks.  
  


You tell me about your sister, who can't find a job. You tell me about your younger brother, who has brain damage and is getting bullied at school. You tell me about another brother, who's in Juvie for the third time, and a third brother, who has a steady job and is yet absent from family life. You tell me about Debbie, who's in college and might be pregnant.  
  


And you tell me about yourself. You tell me about your girlfriend, the same one who miscarried and who you found out was cheating on you two hours ago. You tell me about how you never completed high school, but how you are working towards your GED. You tell me about how you have bipolar disorder, and that you haven't had a drink since you went on meds. You tell me that you like men even more so than women, but that you loved your girlfriend.  
  


You tell me that you are going back to Chicago to see your family before leaving for the army.  
  


I listen. I listen to you for over an hour. Your face is a mess of tears and snot by the time you're done, but you still looked unfairly beautiful. I usually hate listening to people talk, but I could have listened to you all day. I wish I told you that I was from Chicago too, and that I was going back to keep my sister company. And yet, I can't find the heart to interrupt you. I thought I had time.  
  


And then the bus screeches to a stop, and you look out the window and give a small start, as though coming back into consciousness.  
  


"This is me," you say, and grab your small duffel. "Thanks for listening to me."  
  


You flash a smile, and walk towards the exit of the bus. I only realize that you're actually leaving when you're halfway out the door.  
  


"Wait," I yell. "What's your name?"  
  


You hear the question before the doors slide shut. I look out the window and you're shouting something at me, scribbling something on your palm. It looks like a number.  
  


The bus pulls away before I can get a better look. The wind and engine drown out your name.  
  


 

And I wonder if I will ever see you again.

**Author's Note:**

> believe it or not, I got inspiration from an amazing short story that I read in class. I would link y'all, but it's in mandarin and couldn't seem to find it online :( 
> 
> hope you enjoyed this. leave a comment/kudos?


End file.
